


bare

by DeconstructedIronhide (InsertCoolName)



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bayverse Ironhide, Cats, Gen, Kinda?, Mental Health Issues, Post-Transformers: Dark of the Moon (2011), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 11:09:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14495643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertCoolName/pseuds/DeconstructedIronhide
Summary: The war’s over. Ironhide isn’t sure if it is back home, but… it ishere.





	bare

**Author's Note:**

> OC Cat belongs to me. Not beta read.

Ironhide had almost forgotten what it felt like to not have to carry his cannons around all the time.

It’s taken only a few cycles for the dull but near-constant ache in his shoulders and backstruts to start fading away. His arms are much lighter and freer. At first it’d thrown him off, making him disoriented with his change in balance, but he’s slowly getting used to it. He thinks it might even be improving, along with his speed and agility.

_ Who knew a few hundred pounds could make such a difference,  _ Ironhide thinks to himself, staring down at his servos. He has them held out with his palms up, wiggling his digits and marveling at the way the components in his arms flex and contract and shift. The cannons had been easy to remove, but some of the armor had needed to be removed with it, leaving most of the undersides of his forearms open.

Ironhide hadn’t seen his own ‘bare’ arms in a  _ long  _ time.

Physical aspects aside, the loss is… still taking a bit to get used to. He isn’t ashamed to admit that his cannons are a bit of a safety net for him. He feels vulnerable without them. He couldn’t stop looking over his shoulders the first few days without them, and he’d tense whenever something even mildly threatening occurred - and even when it didn’t.  Sometimes he’d send a command for them to activate, just to hear them hum as they warmed up, and get extremely uneasy when nothing happened, only to remember that they just weren’t  _ there _ anymore.

Touching his index digit to his thumb, Ironhide’s gaze falls down to the crates beside the berth. Inside each one rests a deactivated cannon, wrapped in unassuming tarps to keep them from wandering optics. Ironhide really should move them someplace safer - lock them away in the workshop. He doesn’t want anyone finding them.

Call him paranoid, but he doesn’t think that would end very well.

But it’s his paranoia that’s making him hesitate. What if he needs them? What if something happens and he doesn’t have them on him? He has other weapons, of course, both integrated and otherwise, but the cannons are by far his most trustworthy. Handling them is second nature to him, and they are, quite literally, a part of him.

A part that’s become rather unneeded.

The war’s over. Ironhide isn’t sure if it is back home, but… it is  _ here _ .

Ironhide stares at the crates for a while longer, still playing with his digits but paying no mind to his actions. He isn’t really thinking about anything, just staring with cycling optics and a concentrated expression, and continues to do so until there’s an imperceptibly gentle touch against his pede, something he’s come to recognize as the press of tiny brown paws. Shaking himself out of his silence, Ironhide peers down at the floor. Blue eyes peer right back up at him.

Ironhide smiles. “And where have  _ you  _ been?” he demands in mock severity. A muffled  _ mrrf  _ is the only offered reply, and he returns it with his own huff of amusement. Cat pushes herself up to headbutt Ironhide’s pede and begins to purr like a tiny, fine-tuned engine, so Ironhide leans down to carefully stroke her with a single digit. She revels in it with an arch of her back and a signature Siamese cry, craning her delicate head up to follow him. Ironhide chuckles warmly.

“Come here, pretty eyes,” he says, very,  _ very  _ gently picking the small feline up off the floor and depositing her onto the berth. Cat crowds up to his hip and rubs her face against the tire, making him snicker a bit. It  _ tickles _ .

Ironhide’s never been much of a cat person, or an animal person in general, really, but… Cat is  _ his  _ cat.

Sometimes she isn’t too bad to have around.

“You’re an attention whore,” he deadpans when Cat begins to headbutt his servo in insistence for more pets. As predicted, Cat just yells back at him and tries all the harder. Ironhide indulges her with another smile and falls silent, content to simply enjoy the feeling of her silky fur beneath his digits and listen to her rumble.

The crates next to the berth lay forgotten. Ironhide can worry about them another day.


End file.
